A Night Out
by Sokka17
Summary: One shot. A night at the Dingo doesn't end the way Soda thought it would.


The sky was already dark when we left the house. Behind us in the living room, Pony and Johnny were playing cards, Darry was reading- and before us the streetlights were flickering silently on and the edge of the sky was red where it dipped down behind the houses.

Mosquitoes were still out - pesky little buggers that darted around our faces and bit at us. I waved them off, swearing; Steve lit a match and moved it slowly in front of his face, grinning a little. For a minute, it held them at bay - then the match burned out and before Steve could get another one lit, they were all over him.

We took it the best we could and continued on. The streets were dark but not quiet. Someone brawled in a near by house, someone screamed in another one. A car roared by, strains of Elvis Presley and laughter floating along in it's wake. Ahead of us, a couple girls in skirts and eye liner gossiped; a near by yard exploded in a roar of fake machine gun fire. Steve jumped a little, and I laughed.

It was a great night to be out.

We headed for the DX, jumping fences and skirting puddles from this morning's rain. Somewhere along the way, Steve lit a cigarette; all I could see of him was it's tip, burning red in the night.

We found the DX deserted, except for Jimmy, leaning idley against one of the pumps, smoking a cigarette and humming to himself. He looked up as we crossed the lot and grinned.

"Hey."

I heyed him back; Steve grunted. As we passed him, I warned, "Don't let Roy catch you smokin' out here-"

"Shove off, Curtis." He scowled, rolling the cigarette between his lips. Ashes fell off the end of it and drifted lazily to the ground.

We entered the store and found Bob arranging the magazine rack, even though nothing was out of place. He grunted at us. "Hey, kids."

Steve scowled. He didn't like Bob, I knew, so I grabbed his elbow and steered him away, towards the back, where I dug two bottles of Pepsi out of the glass refridgerator. I tossed one to Steve; he caught it without a word and twisted it open.

We paid and left. Jimmy was still at the pump, puffing away. As we passed, Steve nodded to him. "Got an extra?"

Jimmy raised an eye brow. "Your already smoking one. What'd you need another one for?"

"One for each lung," I joked, and Steve chuckled.

"Nah, man. It's my last."

JImmy shrugged. "Tough shit. It's my last, too."

We left and headed down towards Grews Ave. The street was empty, save us and the bugs that flitted around in the sparse light of the few working street lights. Steve was smoking slower, as if to preserve his last weed. I drank my Pepsi and half of Steve's before he noticed and swiped it back with an irritated expression. I laughed at it and pushed him; he pushed me back and for a minute, we had an all out scuffle in the door way of an old mill.

Then Steve dropped his cigarette on my cheek and I called a stop. Steve apologized and helped me up, but he was laughing so hard that I doubted his sincerity. We continued on our way, quieter, but no less happy.

We finally met up with Grews Ave, and with it, the Dingo. Even thouhg it was only a little after eight, it was already packed out. Cars and trucks filled every available spot, and even from down the road I could see that there was no chance in hell we'd be able to get a booth. After all, it was Friday night - and not only that, it was the last day of school. Every one would be there.

Everyone was there. The parking lot was a buzz of activity - girls in short skirts and heels flocked here and there, balancing milkshakes and trays of food. They're boy friends - tough looking kids with greased back hair and leather jackets - called out to them, laughing and bobbing their heads. All the cars were on, their head lights piercing the darkness at the edge of the lot and their hoods offering make shift restaurant seating. Each one had it's own radio on, and only a few coordinated stations. Every car played a different song - some Elvis, some country, some the Beetles.

We squeezed inside and found it worse than outside. Booths that were supposed to fit six now fit ten. Every table was a mess of milk shake glasses and fry baskets. At the front counter stood a line of fifteen. Waitresses dashed around, balancing loaded trays above bent elbows; Steve anxiously inspected each one.

I nudged him. "See her?"

He shook his head, pursed his lips, then exhaled loudly. "C'mon," he said. "I don't think she's workin' tonight, after all."

I nodded sympathetically and ducked back outside, where we wandered the lot, talking to anyone we knew, until we found Two Bit lounging on the hood of his junker. A couple guys were with him - Chris Campell, Tommy Fenston, Mike Renaulle, and Patrick LeCrue. They were sharing a big basket of fries and a six pack.

Two Bit grinned at us. "Evenin', ladies!" He called, and Steve flipped him the bird before jumping up next to him.

"Hey, man," He said, "You see her anywhere?"

"Yeah,sure," Two Bit answered around a mouthful of fries and beer. "She was here. Left a half hour ago, I'de say."

Steve sighed heavily. Then he nabbed the basket of fries and scuttled back wards up Two Bit's windshield to the roof, where he grinned and triumphantly stuffed a handful of fries in his mouth.

"Hey," Two Bit said, a little irritated, "Get off. You can't sit up there."

"Why not?"

Two Bit scowled. "It's not that strong. You'll dent it."

We all laughed. "Shit, Two Bit," Patrick said, "You're whole cars one huge fucking dent. Randle won't hurt it anymore than it already is."

Two Bit only scowled again and took a swig of his beer. I put my foot on the bottom of the open car window and boosted myself up to the roof, where I settled next to Steve and picked at the fries.

We watched the excitement around us with interest. A bunch of guys in the bed of a truck a couple spots over were throwing beer bottles across the road, hooting when they broke on the far side walk. Several couples had gotten off their cars to dance together in the middle of the parking lot, their bodies twisting to whatever tune the nearest car happened to be playing. Some other, younger boys, were wrestling in one corner of the lot; near them, a boy and girl were yelling at each other. The girl was crying and the boy kept pounding the hood of his car-

"Hey. Hey, Coca Cola!"

I jerked and looked down at Mike, who grinned at me. "What'd you say?"

"I asked what you got in Biology."

"Biology?" Steve asked with obvious indigence. "School's over, man. Why the hell are you talkin' about biology?"

Mike shrugged. "Just wanted to know how he thinks he did."

I shrugged nonchalantly and chewed on afry. "Failed it, of course." I wiped the grease off my fingers onto my jeans. "Doesn't matter anyways. It's not like I'm goin' back next year."

Mike grinned alittle, but Two Bit frowned and looked away, gulping at his beer. Steve glanced over at me, his eyes dark.

"Hey," he whispered, "You talk to Darry yet?"

I hadn't. And I wouldn't, until I had enjoyed at least a few days of summer. So I shook my head and licked at the salt on my fingertips.

"Nah," I replied. "I'm givin' it awhile."

"Soda-"

"Not now, okay?" Steve's jaw tightened at my harsh tone, so I lowered my voice. "Okay, Stevie?" He hesitated, then smiled grimly at me, so I knew all was well.

As I turned around I saw someone worming his way through the crowd towards our car, his wispy hair glowing almost silver in the glare of the headlights. It was Dally, his leather bomber jacket tossed over one schoulder, a pack of Kools sticking out of his back jean pocket, his cross swaying against his chest. He nodded to a few guys, winked at a few girls - then scrambled up Two Bit's car the same way I had.

"Push over, Sodapop."

I did, sliding closer to Steve so Dally could sit comfortably, the heels of his cowboy boots tapping the windshield. Two Bit glared at them.

"Keep 'em still, Dal. Don't mark it up any."

"Yeah, Dal," I drawled. "Wouldn't wanna rub any of the dirt off it, now." Dallas laughed; Two Bit flipped me off and lay back down, his beer nestled securely on his stomach.

Dallas took the fries from me. "Where's the kid, Soda? And Johnny?"

"At home," I answered. "God, I'm thirsty. " Two Bit offered me his beer but I declined, opting instead for the half finished Pepsi that sat between mine and Steve's thighs.

"Why'de they-"

"Hey!"

I turned my head in time to catch the beer can hurtling towards it on the cheek. I fell backwards, my eyes watering, as Dally leaped off the roof of the car. Fries flew everywhere and a minute later the sounds of an out-and-out fight were heard.

My cheek was throbbing. There was beer in my eyes and in my hair and in my mouth. I spat it out and pushed myself up. Steve had me immediately by the shirt collar, dragging me closer so he could stare at my face unhindered.

"Jesus, Soda," He said, "Look at your face.."

I pushed him away and turned to the side, where Dally and another boy I didn't recognize scuffled wildly, swearing and shouting. I slid off the car and headed over to the ring of shouting kids who had gathered around Dally. I wanted to see just who it was throwing shit at me-

Behind me, I heard Steve scrambling off the car, running after me, shouting my name. I ignored him and pushed my way through the crowd. A couple guys turned to shoot me dirty looks, but stopped once they saw it was only me. I didn't get the horrified looks on their faces though, or why the girls kept trying to touch my cheek.

I finally broke throuhg the edge and saw Dallas straddling the stomach of a boy in a Madras shirt and khakis. His dark hair was swept off his forehead, dragging in the dirt as his head was jerked left and right by the force of Dally's blows. His face was discolored with blood, but i recognized him almost right away.

Ricky Ohlson.

Of course it was him. After that shit last April...

"What the hell is he doin' here alone?" Steve whispered against my neck, and I started. I hadn't heard him come up.

"I don't-" I began, but was interrupted by the sudden wailing of sirens. Tires screeeched; a horn roared. The crownd dispersed almost immediatley, loading into cars or taking off around the corner of the building. Only a few didn't bother to move as several police men pulled themselves out of the squad car, their badges glistening in the gritty lights that filtered out from the cracked blinds in the restaraunt windows.

They dove into the fight with out any restraint, hauling Dally backwards by his arms, his shirt, his hair - anything they could get their hands on. He fought back viciously, flailing his arms and screaming. His mouth was bleeding; when he yelled, droplets of blood splattered his shirt front.

The cop struggling with Dally finally clubbed him in the back of the head with his fist and Dally fell silent. He stood loosely, breathing heavily, his chest moving rapid fire and his arms screwed behind his back in the grip of Officer Marks. That's what his name tag read.

His partner, who's name tag proclaimed him to be Office Benz-Heischt, was bent over Ohlson, talking to him in a low voice. Ohlson was moaning like a simpering idiot - really playing it up. When Benz-Heischt slowly helped him to his feet with a gentle hand, while Marks threw Dally against the nearsest car and pulled a pair of hand cuffs from his belt, I stepped forward.

"Hey! That's-"

Steve jerked me backwards, hissing in my ear, "Shut it, Sodapop. You wanna land your ass in jail too?"

I didn't know what to say, how to say it - that this wasn't right, that they were just going to lock Dally up without asking any questions, that that stupid fucking Ricky Ohlson was going to get off scott fucking free-

"Hey!"

I jerked around and found myself eye to eye with Marks. He was only a foot away, his thumbs hooked around his belt, his eyes small. Behind him, I saw Benz-Heischt bundling Dally into the back of their squad car.

"Kid, I'm talking to you."

Steve nudged me and I dragged my attention away from Dally's angry face to Marks' stoic one. "Yeah?"

"What happened to your face? You get in it with them too?"

"You're not arresting him too?" I pointed to Ohlson, who looked blankly at me.

"That's not the answer I was looking for," Marks snapped. "Who gave you that big ugly cut?" I opened my mouth but before I could answer, he went on, " The Dingo's no place to rumble, kid. You wanna get in with the big timers, I'll be more'n happy to take you down with Winston here and show you around a little-"

"I didn't fucking do anything," I snapped. My hands, balled into fists, bounced against my thighs. "Okay? That jack ass over there started it- throwing beer cans at my face and shit, ok? I didn't do anything, Dally didn't do anything - you can't just take him in like that-"

"Don't tell me what I can and can't do." Marks face twisted into an angry grimace. "Got it? Winston's no more than a sorry, stupid instigater, and he's gone too far again-"

"Too far?" I cried. "He didn't do anything! It was that punk-"

Marks took a step forward, his face suddenly cold and his eyes narow. Quietly, so quietly I almost didn't hear him, he said, "I think it's tme you boys got home."

I stuttered to a stop. "What?"

"I think you've seen enough." His eyes didn't leave mine. "Unless you want to get into that car with Winston, I suggest you leave."

I fell quiet. Behind Marks, Benz was helping Ohlson to his car, a blue Mustange parked against the opposite curb. Ohlson was limping, leaning against Benz like he was really hurt - and Dally was sitting in the back of a squad car, pressing the bottom of his shirt to his lips to stop the bleeding, his arms cuffed together, his face hard and cold.

"Kid?"

I looked back at Marks. He was still staring at me, his mouth tight underneath his thick mustache. I felt at a loss for words, but I tried again, even though I knew it would do no good.

"Look, all I'm tryin' to say is that you got the wrong guy. Dallas didn't start anything - it was Ohlson over there, throwing-"

"You think," Marks interrupted in a low voice, "That I'd believe that? For even one fuckin' second?"

I felt a little sick. "It's the truth-"

"It's a lie." Marks laughed quietly. "Grease like you don't tell the truth."

It was quiet again. I was dimly aware of Steve pulling on my elbow, of Ricky Ohlson's Mustang pulling away from us, of Benz-Heischt yelling at Dally-

"You going to leave, kid? Or am I going to have to take you in as well?"

I almost wanted to say yes. Just to show him that the threat didn't faze me. That just because he was bigger and older and richer that I wasn't going to cower down and let him treat my friends - hell, treat _me _like he thought he could-

"C'mon, Soda." Steve was still pulling at my arm. "C'mon. Let's go inside-

"No!" Marks barked. "I said to leave, you little ass, not go inside."

I felt Steve bristle; his grip on my arm grew tighter. "I just want to get him some ice for his face, man-"

"He can get that when he gets home." Marks took a step forward. "Now scram, or I'm taking you both in."

There was no movement for a minute. Then Steve turned and walked slowly away, taking me with him. We didn't speak. Behind us, I heard a car door open and close and an engine roar to life. I looked back in time to see the police car pull out of the lot, Dally's head bobbing in the back window.

For a minute we stood there, at the edge of the lot, and said nothing. It was getting a little chilly, and I shivered.

"Man," I said, "My face hurts."

Steve looked over. "Wanna go back inside? Get a bag of ice from someone or something?"

I shook my head and stepped off of the curb into the street. I'd had enough of the Dingo for one night.


End file.
